Gilligan's Island: Rebooted
by JukeboxJulia
Summary: Gilligan, the Skipper, the millionaire and his wife, the movie star, the Professor and Mary Ann get stranded on an island. There's romance, there's danger, there's a through plot, a little bit of a mystery. Basically what a gritty CW-style reboot of Gilligan's Island might be if the episodes were chapters and not, you know, TV episodes. / Art by Dappermouth.
1. Murphy's Law

**Why am I doing this, you ask? I'm asking that, too.**

**I mean, this is semi-intentionally going to be a trainwreck. We start with the Skipper highkey depressed, Professor and Mary Ann having an illicit affair, Ginger as a drug addict, and the Howells having been separated for years. Honestly, I've done everything but inexplicably make Gilligan a gang leader. **

**Well, okay, to be fair, I do actually have a plan for the storyline, so I'm actually a bit ahead of the CW in that regard.**

**Anyway, for real, drop a comment with every reference you caught to the original Gilligan's Island show. Ten points per reference.**

/

**101: "Murphy's Law"**

_"Anything that can go wrong will go wrong."_

Summer nights lasted so long. The Hawaiian humidity crept into every corner of the bar the old skipper frequented, where dirty countertops were sticky with alcohol and sweat. Outside, his first mate waited faithfully, one year too young to enter the bar. For that, the old skipper was inwardly grateful.

This was no place for anyone with a single shred of innocence left.

_"This, of course, raises questions about potential."_

Thurston Howell III sucked on a cigar. He gazed out into the crowd—young women, young men, all of them seemingly without a care in the world. For the night, he was one of them, if only for his image. There was champagne, wine, vodka, all the finest reserves, and money flowing like blood.

His wife was miles away, probably hosting a far more eloquent party, probably making good use of his money.

She was the last thing on his mind.

_"There are practically infinite ways anything could go wrong."_

_Ginger Grant. _The name everyone knew. The face, the perfect body, the child star who grew into a redheaded bombshell right there in the public eye.

The movie star.

The sweetheart seductress.

The addict.

_"Does the universe know which is the worst?"_

The university professor looked out at the classroom, let them ponder the question for a moment before continuing.

"Murphy's Law is a simple phrase that leads to a veritable array of logical contradictions and philosophical impossibilities. Objects—an innocent die, for instance—would have an agenda. Motives."

"Objects, of course, are just objects. The universe does not work against us. It is we who create chaos, who submit to errors."

He skimmed the room again, avoided meeting one pair of wide eyes.

"Only us."

As the other students—bored, dull-eyed, and sleep-deprived—shuffled out of the classroom to continue, move on with their day, their lives, the Professor began to pack his bag.

As if he could be that lucky.

Indeed, something was about to go very wrong.

"Roy?"

The Professor froze with one arm halfway to his bag, the heavy binder in his hand weighing it down.

"Please, Mary Ann—uh, Miss Summers—in the classroom, it's Professor Hinkley."

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Professor," she corrected herself. _Sweet girl._ "I was just hoping we could talk about… things." Her voice lowered unconsciously, but somehow kept its hopeful twinge.

"Alright, well, come in during office hours—"

"Actually I was thinking maybe something else," Mary Ann said with a playful, conspiratorial tone. She slipped the Professor an envelope. "Keep that to yourself."

And then she breezed out of the classroom as though nothing had happened.

The Professor realized he was holding his breath, then released it with a huff. He tore open the envelope, breathing still strained from stress and… something else.

The moment he opened the envelope, he could smell her. She had dusted the paper inside with her perfume, he realized as the scent of ambergris and alcohol consumed him. A strange combination of excitement and dread crept through his veins as he read the contents in the emptied classroom.

_Roy,_

_I'm a simple girl. I'm from Kansas, and the one crazy thing I've ever done is going to school in Hawaii, so far from home. I'm studying agriculture (but your class is by far my favorite!) so that I can work my best on my father's farm. I've had steady boyfriends before, but nothing's worked out._

_I'll be blunt. I'm not looking for a secret relationship. I'm not looking for hookups after hours in the dark._

_I think what we have is real. I never would have sought you out if I didn't think we could have something real._

_I know there's a little age gap and a big issue regarding our status, but I want to talk about it, at least._

_I want you, plain and simple._

_Meet me at Kona Café at 5 tonight if you're willing to talk._

_All my faith,_

_Mary Ann_

Outside, the hallway buzzed. Fellow professors, superiors, students wandered the halls. Hundreds of people who could never know. Mary Ann was no doubt among them, carrying their heavy secret.

/

"Mr. Howell?"

Howell was still bleary-eyed from sleep (and bourbon), but he opened one eye at the sound of his assistant's voice.

"Wh—"

"Mr. Howell!" The assistant's voice was harsher now. Not abnormal, but it made Howell straighten up a bit.

"What?" Howell reluctantly sat up in his silk sheets, surveyed the million-dollar bedroom he'd crashed in the night before.

"There's… a bit of a problem."

"Out with it, then."

"It's an online confession."

"Get to the _point, _boy."

"It seems one of your… _conquests_…" At that, Howell rolled his eyes. "…has publicly retold the story of when they met you."

That got Mr. Howell's attention. A moment to process the information, then, "How bad is it?"

"We can control it. Your company's public relations team is on it with a wad of cash, all you have to do is sign a couple papers and hopefully the post will be taken down or discredited."

"Thank God."

"But…" the assistant was hesitant, his voice dropping the way it did when he knew Howell was about to be unhappy.

"But _what_?"

"_But_, we can't undo what's already been put out there. We need to do damage control."

"Meaning?"

His assistant sighed. "You need to show the public real love. Love for your _wife_."

Howell grimaced, opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

"There's nothing more romantic than Hawaii at sunset." Howell's assistant's gloved hands produced one slim piece of paper: a boat ticket. "I've arranged a romantic boating trip for you and the missus. The ocean, sunset, starlight, music. _Fine wine._"

"I'm sure it won't be fine enough. Sounds dreadfully commonplace," Howell said, pushing away the ticket.

"Exactly." His assistant foisted them toward Howell again. "You'll be seen. The fact of you two sharing a romantic evening might be enough to displace the mere claim of your infidelity."

Howell scowled, thought about consulting the old teddy bear beside him.

His assistant wouldn't have it. "The whole trip shouldn't take more than three hours. It'll sail out to Maui and then back again. If you _must_, you and the missus can cut the trip short. Get off in Maui and sleep there."

"Certainly not together."

"Of course not. You can take the house, and I can arrange for your wife to sleep in the nicest hotel the island has to offer."

_The house? _"Oh, yes." Mr. Howell remembered. "I forget about our house in Maui." That settled it. If a clean reputation meant a mere three hour tour, Howell could handle it. "I'll meet you there, then." He dismissed his assistant with a wave of his hand.

"I'll begin packing your bags." Packing for a Howell was no small task, so he left immediately, leaving Mr. Howell still lying in bed, still a bit drunk from the night before, and anxious to the core.

/

_Louise_.

_She _was the one who goes on a boat trip.

_Louise goes on a boat trip. Louise gets drunk? Louise falls overboard._

Didn't that happen in the third _Power Fantasy _movie? She could no longer remember. It had been a long time ago, and the third one, according to critics and audiences alike, suffered a huge drop in quality.

Ginger Grant shook her head. If it was Louise who had gone on a boat trip so many years ago, why was it Ginger who was holding a boat ticket?

She glanced around, disoriented but not yet afraid. This was becoming the norm, blurred lines between reality and fiction. No cameras. No crew. No director in a big folding chair shouting through a bullhorn, telling her what to do.

Ginger felt a pang of disappointment. She was on her own.

Alone in a trashy hotel room that reeked of alcohol and maybe sex. Hard to tell which scents were new and which had been there when Ginger checked in. Either way, she needed a shower.

The sound of the water flowing was like static in her ears, and when she stepped under the flow, it felt like static on her skin. Irritated, she tried to remember why she had bought a boat ticket.

_Six _boat tickets, that is. She mused for a moment, wondered which five people she had imagined joining her. She couldn't remember all the peripheral roles, Louise's story in the film. Maybe she had five friends. Ginger would have to check the script.

Speaking of which, she remembered with relief that it was Saturday. _Freedom. _

After minutes of scrubbing herself with the smallest bar of soap known to man and emptying the single ounce of shampoo allotted by the hotel into her red hair, Ginger realized that she wasn't getting much cleaner in the shower; even it felt dirty, it was probably a more popular hookup spot than the bed.

She shut off the water and wrapped herself in the ratty towel, trying not to think of what the last person to use it might have been like, how grotesque.

She was a goddamn movie star, Ginger thought bitterly. She shouldn't have to endure these conditions. She shuffled back into the bedroom, where she'd left her purse and the six boarding passes.

_Boarding Pass_

**_S.S. Minnow, Exotic Trip_**

**_Depart:_**_ Honolulu (Oahu): 1800._

**_Arrive: _**_Kaunakakai (Molokai), Lanai, Kahoolawe, Kahului (Maui), Honolulu (Oahu)._

**_THIS IS YOUR TICKET TO BOARD, SEA YOU SOON!_**

Apparently, she could have her pick of spending the weekend on five different Hawaiian islands. Ginger grinned. Perks of shooting a movie on set.

Why not live like Louise? Get a little drunk, take a little trip…

Ginger smiled and held one of the tickets to her chest.

She would only need the one.

/

Gilligan was nervous. Never a good sign.

He was twenty years old and a screw-up. That was it, that was the truth. He was lucky to have the Skipper's support, but he would be luckier to make it through the evening without spilling soup or wine on the passengers.

One of which was a movie star.

_Two_ of which were billionaires.

Gilligan's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't even old enough to be drinking the wine they'd serve; why had the Skipper placed so much faith in his little buddy?

"Skipper—" Gilligan started the question as his captain made his way out of the bar. The bar Gilligan was a year too young to even set foot in.

"All set," the Skipper grumbled. He wasn't upset with Gilligan, Gilligan knew. He was just upset. About what, he had never said. "Remind me what tonight is?"

"Wine and dine tour across the islands," Gilligan said dutifully. "Small trip, but, um, I was looking at the ticket sales, and there are some pretty big names."

"Oh, great," Skipper said sourly. "I hate this one. All the tourists asking if they can tour the islands, if we can pick them up later, getting drunk and silly or cranky… Whose idea was this, anyway?"

"It must be popular because—"

"And it goes till the wee hours of the morning. Ugh! Why can't everyone just get off in Maui and be done with it?"

"Skipper, the Howells are going to be on the trip. And Ginger Grant!"

That got Skipper's attention. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, stunned. "The Howells? _Ginger Grant?_"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, Gilligan." The Skipper was already making a game plan in his head, Gilligan could tell. He smiled inwardly, grateful to have such a man as his mentor. "Here's what we'll do. You go home and grab us some extra nice clothes to put on when the ship sets out. I'll run down to the liquor store and get us some exceptional booze. And, well, what do movie stars like?"

"Movies?"

"Movies," Skipper looked annoyed and Gilligan knew he'd given the wrong answer. "Right, well, since we can't play movies on the ship, why don't we just stick with the nice clothes and booze?"

"Alright." Gilligan paused. "But, Skipper, shouldn't we treat all our passengers like millionaires and movie stars? The best of the best."

The Skipper let out a long, annoyed sigh. "Well, sure, we _should_, but some folks just have higher standards."

"Hmm. I guess you're right."

"And Gilligan?"

"Yes, Skipper?"

"Do _not _foul anything up on this trip."

"Yes, Skipper."

The five hours before the tour started crawled by agonizingly slowly. Gilligan checked and rechecked the meals for the night (steak or fish dinners, almost entirely prepared; why a billionaire couple and a movie star would want reheated, second-tier steaks was beyond Gilligan). He checked the ship's wine rack, below deck, that housed over 100 bottles for all the future tours. Surely none would be vintage enough for the Howells. He hoped Skipper knew what he was doing.

1800 and Gilligan was under strict orders from the Skipper to act as though the next voyage of the S.S. Minnow was like any other. Still, Gilligan could hardly contain his nerves. He felt dreadfully underdressed; he hadn't thought to dress a step above a red collared shirt.

1830 and the ship was sailing. Gilligan hadn't seen any of the passengers yet—the Skipper was the one to take their boarding passes. Gilligan waited patiently for the meals to heat, and heard a crackle from the radio.

Skipper, calling from the wheel.

"Little Buddy? Over."

Gilligan braced himself for the worst.

"Here, Skipper, over."

"You're only going to need to heat up fourteen dinners. There are a few empty seats on the ship. Over."

"Oh. Okay. Over and out." Gilligan hung up the radio as he had a million times. Now, he was shaking with anticipation to meet the passengers. A half an hour crept by as the meals heated, and Gilligan made sure to bring out the Howells' meals first, as the Skipper had ordered before they set out.

"Now, I must confess that I find you more radiant and lovely than first imaginable, but the ugly truth is that—"

Across the table from Ginger Grant, who was to receive her dinner third, a man in a light blue dress shirt was speaking softly to an adorable girl with black pigtails. Gilligan tried not to eavesdrop—the Skipper had said it was rude—but it was hard not to overhear when the girl screamed.

_Bad breakup? _He made a mental note to serve the girl some of the fancy wine the Skipper had purchased, even if he had claimed that it was only for the Howells and the movie star.

"Oh—" the girl let out a sort of choked cry, as if she'd just realized the terrible noise she made. When she spoke again, she whispered, but actually sounded excited. "That's Ginger Grant!"

"That's whom?" her apparent date asked. Had he been living under a rock for the past few years?

"Ginger Grant!" the girl repeated quietly as Gilligan brought Ginger's dish closer. Except for a quick glance when the girl had screamed, Ginger didn't seem to be listening in to their conversation. He dropped off her dish with a smile before retreating to the kitchen.

_Gilligan, meeting a movie star!_ He could have screamed like the girl at the other table.

/

When their food came, the Howells still had not said more than three words to each other. The limo had picked up Mr. Howell first, Mrs. Howell fifteen minutes later. When they were both together, the paparazzi had been "anonymously tipped off" and by the time the couple got to the docks, a healthy handful of photographers were waiting.

Wordlessly, the Howells held hands as they made their way onto the ship. They exchanged a kiss—not too long, not too brief—before boarding, as agreed.

The publicity of it all would have made a regular couple uncomfortable, and because Howell hadn't so much as seen his wife in five years, the entire ordeal made him squirm.

Apparently, the boat trip wouldn't be enough to convince the public that Howell wasn't a slimeball who cheats on his wife. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, Howell's team insisted they be seen together in public all week.

At least they'd sleep in separate beds, across the house.

It occurred to Howell as his meal arrived that, even though there didn't appear to be any cameras on board the ship, there were at least a dozen pairs of eyes on them.

Cutting into his steak, Howell forced a smile at his wife. "How have you been?" he asked, his face bright but his words quiet and cautious.

"I could sleep with other men if I wanted to." Lovey Howell clearly had the same intentions as her husband; she spoke with venom, but kept her face lively and content. "I, apparently, am the only one to care about the Howell-Wentworth reputation."

Howell couldn't think of a refute, so he gave her a tremendous fake smile and leaned back in his chair, resigned to eating in silence once again.

/

"That's Ginger Grant!" Mary Ann squealed. "I'm sure of it!" She was so flooded with excitement that she had almost forgotten what was about to happen.

She was sweet, but not stupid. She could tell from the moment the Professor had arrived that he intended to end things that night. The thought made her heart sink.

Seeing her favorite movie star lifted it right back up.

"Who?"

Mary Ann turned back to Professor, pointedly dropped her jaw. "What, you've never seen _The Rain Dancers of Rango Rango_?"

"The _what_?"

"_Bimbofication_?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Bimbofication_! People are talking Oscars!"

"Or, come on, _Power Fantasy_? That was a big movie. It's a classic!"

"I can't say I watch many movies. I find myself overbooked with classes, research, and writing. I don't even own a television."

"Oh." Mary Ann wasn't sure what to say. She found the Professor's devotion to science and fascination with the world inspiring, endearing, but she was beginning to realize that they might not have much in common. "So what do you do for fun?"

"Mary Ann, I teach twelve classes, I help out at the research lab, and I am compiling a book of my academic writings. I don't have time for fun."

Mary Ann recoiled, and she could see in the Professor's face that he realized what he had said.

"Usually." Professor picked at his fish. "I… I do enjoy our time together." He took a deep breath. Things were about to get bad, Mary Ann realized. "But this is just one more reason we can't be together. I am consumed by work. I was lonely that night and I didn't realize what I was doing…"

"What does that mean?"

"What?"

"That you didn't realize what you were doing. It wasn't an _accident_."

"No…" the Professor fumbled. "Not, not like that. I didn't realize who you were. And I had a rare free night, and I didn't realize you were a student until it was nearly too late."

"I recognized you right away. I said 'It's nice to see you again.'" Mary Ann crossed her arms. "Who did you think I was?"

"I have a lot of students. The university is criminally underfunded and I teach _twelve_ different classes…"

/

For a pauper's trip, the S.S. Minnow had a beautiful view at sunset. When the light hit her just right, Mr. Howell could see his wife for who she was years ago. Young. Beautiful. Spirited.

The truth is that he had no idea who she was anymore.

"What have you been up to?" Mr. Howell asked, surprising himself with the question. Maybe it was the fact that he was so used to making conversation with lovely ladies, maybe Mrs. Howell was just another in a long line of beautiful people.

But she looked surprised, too. "Is someone still staring?" she asked, her voice low.

Howell considered lying. "No. I'm just curious as to what my wife is up to these days. How you've been spending my money," he added, just to stay in character. Of course, he knew exactly how she'd been spending his money. Their marriage, which was a beautifully-constructed lie from the start, had been very clear about how she was to spend Howell money and how he was to spend Wentworth money. The goal, of course, was to have more in the end. Howell never had trouble with the end goal.

Lovey, on the other hand…

In the first ten years, he'd seen her spending every penny she could spare (without intense scrutiny from her relatives and, well, himself) on charity cases.

Those numbers had been falling off in the recent years, though. Howell wondered if it was something the Wentworths squelched or if his wife had just grown out of her charitable whims.

In any case, he already knew that Lovey was mainly working on her culture. Theatre, galleries, cotillions. She was actually the kind of person Mr. Howell pretended to be when he was in public. He was glad the media, the most influential families tended to gravitate to her rather than him. After all, she loved a good interview, and always welcomed people into her homes with open arms.

Howell wondered if she would welcome him back, should he ever need to retreat to her.

Probably not. "I've been becoming my best self." Her voice was ice.

"No more charity work?"

"No," she said curtly, which made Howell smile. A frugal wife, he thought, is the best kind.

"What?" she asked.

"It's been too long."

His wife looked confused, maybe a bit angry.

Slightly scared of her, Howell continued. "Maybe it's just the evening sky talking, but I wouldn't mind staying on this ship a bit longer."

"We're supposed to get off in Maui," she reminded him.

"I can get my pilot to fly us there."

"Our pilot," Lovey corrected him.

"It's just been a long time since I've seen the ocean." Mr. Howell was almost awed by its expanse, the sun setting pink along the water, the music floating loftily from the speakers on the little ship. With another drink, he might even find it a religious experience. Even sober, Howell had to admit that even though the ship was _cheap, _it was admirable for cutting through the endless ocean.

The whole experience was downright quaint.

"I want to stay here," Mr. Howell said, more to the ocean than to Lovey. "Just a little longer."

_Forever._

Twenty years ago, Lovey would have rolled her eyes. She'd been utterly unreserved then. Now, her face only tensed, and she said quietly, "Fine. Anything to keep you in this world a tad longer."

Whatever _that _meant.

/

Skipper wasn't upset about not seeing the celebrities up close and personal. He had other things on his mind. Celebrities might have impressed him years ago, before the war and before 1997.

Now, he had his mind on other things.

The tour was almost over; they were headed back to Honoloulou. Most of the passengers were gone; only five remained now, evidently making the round trip. He had done the voyage a hundred times. It wasn't something he _had _to think about.

Maybe just hadn't realized the storm had been brewing for a while. Or maybe the storm came out of nowhere.

The first thing that happened was the rain.

It came in a downburst, soaking the dining area.

Gilligan radioed in and told Skipper that he was taking the passengers below deck.

Skipper didn't even respond.

Lightning and thunder began to take the sky.

They were so few nautical miles from the shore. It should have been so easy to return. But, there were no ports, no safe beaches, Skipper knew.

Then the wind came.

Skipper had never seen anything like it.

He radioed Gilligan for help, and Gilligan immediately appeared in the cockpit. Even in the throes of the storm, the Skipper felt a rush of relief that he had such a loyal first mate.

Still grasping the wheel, he urged Gilligan to radio for help.

They were helpless against the sea.

/

"Oh, what's happening?" Mary Ann shrunk into the Professor's arms, despite their earlier discussion.

"It's fine," the Professor said, meaning to reassure only her, but temporarily easing the minds of the other three passengers. "It's just a small storm, we're down here to keep from getting wet, that's all."

"He's right," Mr. Howell tried to assure his wife.

"Of cou—" Mrs. Howell began, just before the ship lurched dangerously, sending the passengers stumbling into the port side wall.

"Probably just rerouting," Professor said, though everyone could hear the waver in his voice.

Again, the ship seemed to leap, sending the passengers floundering.

There was a moment of horrible silence in the cabin, the ran pounding against the deck above, the wind howling like a mad dog, and the S.S. Minnow itself creaking and churning. Professor clung to Mary Ann, Mr. Howell to his estranged wife, and Ginger to an empty bottle of wine.

Another lurch that turned into another and another. Cinematically, the lights and the music flickered off, slow at first, coming on and off, and then definitively, permanently. Soon, the passengers were on the ground, unable to stand without falling.

"What's going on?" Mary Ann wailed. She sounded very young and very, very scared.

"I'll sue!" Mr. Howell barked in vain.

"I'm way too sober to die," Ginger muttered under her breath. The booze had actually been incredible, and she'd taken a little orange pill that made her not want to move at all. In the face of danger, though, it was nowhere near enough.

Maybe an hour went by. Maybe two, maybe six. Each passenger would later surmise a different duration; none were watching their watches or their phones, except to check for service so they could phone for help. (There was none, of course. They were in the middle of the goddamn open ocean.) For everyone, though, the turmoil seemed to last a lifetime.

Had they died then, Mary Ann's last thoughts would have been of her father's farm in Kansas, so far away. Below deck, as the storm raged on, she thought of how they would miss her, how she would miss them, wherever she went. Here, she had tried being adventurous, travelling to Hawaii, and, she thought dispiritedly.

And as Professor held her, he felt a tremendous wave of guilt. It was his fault Mary Ann was here. It was _his _fault she would probably die minutes after being rejected. And how would he himself be remembered? An overworked professor who barely knew his students or his coworkers, who had made no real contributions to science. If he'd believed in a god, he would have prayed for more time.

Thurston Howell III. He was in his fifties, but he might as well have been twenty. He had no children, no close friends, and no real legacy. In that moment, he didn't even have his money or his reputation. All he had was the woman he'd been foisted into a marriage with, a woman he'd scarcely seen in the past thirty years.

Lovey Wentworth-Howell remembered the vast expanse of the ocean even her husband had admired so recently, so fondly, imagined how the waves would certainly rush up to swallow all seven people on the Minnow. Money was useless against the storm. Even the Captain and first mate's efforts were surely fruitless. Lovey Howell was powerless.

Ginger Grant? She wondered what she was supposed to do in a situation like this. Was she one to cry or wail? Or was she more the stoic type? She pondered the questions as the ship rocked violently. It seemed very important, suddenly, that she not think of Louise from _Power Fantasy_ or Hallowell from _Bimbofication. _Her last thought would have been simply the words _Ginger Guggenheimer, _a name she'd barely thought of since her she began using a stage name so many years ago.

And then there was the crew.

The first mate was far from mighty or fearless in the face of death. He was quaking, quite literally, in his boots. He was far too young to die. He wanted to _live._

The Skipper kept his fears at bay. The truth was that the world had little to offer him anymore. Everything seemed _tired_, tedious, depressing, and yet life had carried on for decades. If he ever got home safely, Skipper would find himself going through the torturous motions, sailing back and forth, living only in memories. If he died? If he died, the Skipper hoped he would see his children again. He hoped vehemently that he would see his son and daughter in some afterlife, that they were happy somewhere else, that they weren't tortured on this earth.

And yet, he had a responsibility. He was responsible for the Howells, for Ginger Grant, for Mary Ann Summers, for Professor Hinkley. Most importantly, he was responsible for Gilligan.

He couldn't live with himself if he let something happen to Gilligan, too.

_/_

The ship set ground before dawn, the world a velvet black, illuminated only when lightning struck in the distance.

The storm was behind them, and the world was silent and dark.

"Gilligan."

Gilligan pried his hands off the transmitter, which he'd been using to try to guide Skipper away from the storm and toward the harbor.

Evidently, it hadn't worked.

He wobbled as he made his way to the Skipper, arms out to ensure he didn't crash into anything on his way.

"Skipper?"

A light came on in the cockpit: Skipper had found a flashlight.

"Emergency kit," Skipper told him before handing Gilligan the second flashlight. "Bring this to the passengers and tell them we've run aground, but we'll be found soon." He rustled around in the kit, drudged out five blankets. "They can get some rest. We have the AIS and a transmitter. Help should be here by morning."

"Yes, sir."

"And Gilligan?"

"Yes, Skipper?"

"Don't go outside."

/

Had they died during the storm, perhaps the passengers would have died with clear minds, hard truths, but utter understanding. They had been resigned to death just hours ago, and yet the new certainty of life was disorienting.

They had lived. They had a flashlight, blankets, and the first mate.

There was hope below the deck of the ship, despite the vast unknown outside, despite the dread that rose in their chests when the silence outside was broken. When, far away, a cry echoed from outside. A low, somber howl that rang in the castaways' ears long after the world was once again silent.

/

**Thank you all so much for willingly reading this trash fire! Remember to comment with any references to the original show that you caught (or whatever else you want to say) and I'll be eternally grateful!**


	2. Static

**Ah, the long-awaited "episode" two! This is… I don't know what. Get ready to explore the island! Remember to look for references to the original show and comment with all the ones you caught. **

**Also, big shout out to the person who left a review that just said "what is cw" but they left it on guest so I have no real way of contacting them and answering… Still, it's a valid question! For those of you who are fortunate enough not to know, the CW is a TV channel that has a lot of gritty, intense shows. One of such shows is **_**Riverdale**_**, which is what this is kind of parodying, because **_**Riverdale **_**is the Archie Comics, but if they were Dark and Gritty.**

/

**102: "Static"**

The castaways watched the sun rise from the still-damp deck of the ship. The tables from the night before had surely launched off the ship, become lost to the sea. The chairs remaining were leaning haphazardly, caught in the Minnow's railing, the picture of chaos, turmoil.

There were times in the night when they were sure that they had travelled to the end of the world, that they were in a place where sound and sight did not truly exist—but then the animals would rustle outside, the flashlight would flicker.

And now, the sky broke into a maternal pink, and the color practically sang across the beach.

They were alive, and the white noise that had clouded their senses all night had a reasonable explanation.

Static from the transmitter was humming from the cockpit.

They should have been rescued by now. And yet, Skipper hadn't been able to so much as make contact with the harbor.

He had counted on the automatic identification system at first, believed it would send their location—whatever it was—back to Honolulu. It was for emergencies, for exactly this kind of situation, for search and rescue, and yet it seemed not to be working.

Skipper wondered how small its range was.

The transmitter wasn't working, and he couldn't fathom why. It was designed to work over long distances… How far could they have possibly been blown off course? Skipper thought back into that endless night, the eternity they'd spent being rocked by the waves, how long their fate had been in the hands of Kanaloa.

Regardless, the fact was that the transmitter wasn't working, the AIS wasn't working, and as far as the Skipper knew, no one knew where they'd landed. Hell, he didn't even know where they'd landed. Someone would have to tell the passengers.

The boat creaked as Skipper walked over its slanted floor to get break the news. Of course, the news went over like a ton of bricks.

The silence after Skipper explained the situation was palpable, thick, miserable.

"Did you try turning the transmitter off and then back on again?" Gilligan was the first to speak, slowly and unsurely.

"Yes, Gilligan, I tried turning the transmitter off and then back on again," Skipper said shortly.

"I—I don't understand…" the little girl, Mary Ann, stuttered. "Is… Is anyone coming for us? Are we lost?

"I'm not sure where we've landed," the Skipper admitted. "There's a chance that we've washed up on an unpopular beach on one of the populated Hawaiian islands."

"Well, what's the alternative?" Mr. Howell asked, dread in his voice.

"You don't really believe that we've washed up on the shore of an uncharted island, do you?" the Professor asked. One arm was pulling Mary Ann close.

"It's not likely," the Skipper lied. "Right now, Gilligan and I are going to walk the shoreline and look for signs of civilization, try to figure out where we are."

"We are?" the first mate asked nervously. Wandering outside the ship felt like a dangerous endeavor. Even in the damp and the dark, it was better inside the ship.

"We are," the Skipper declared, holding up a knapsack. "With any luck, we'll be back soon." He turned to the passengers. "Please don't move. Stay put; we don't know what's on this island."

"You think there are wild animals?" Mary Ann asked, scared.

"It's just a possibility," the Skipper assured her, "but your safety is our top priority."

"What about our safety?" Gilligan whispered, earning himself a glare from the Skipper.

"We should be back soon." Then, handing a walkie-talkie to the Professor, he said, "If you need anything or just need to check up, use this. You know how to use a two-way radio?"

"Of course," the Professor said with a nod.

"We'll radio you as soon as we find anything," the Skipper said.

And with that, he and Gilligan were making their way through the morning air onto the island.

It was surprisingly chilly when the passengers went back above deck to watch the Skipper and the first mate disappear into the horizon.

"I suppose all there's left to do is wait," the Professor said solemnly. He wasn't sure if he would need this time to clarify that things between himself and Mary Ann were still over, and as he turned to look at her, he realized she'd wandered away from him.

"Are you really Ginger Grant?" Mary Ann was asking the taller and more glamourous woman (the one who was Ginger, not the one who was Mrs. Howell, who is probably taller and more glamorous than Mary Ann as well).

"I am." Ginger seemed calm, and she spoke with the throaty voice of a sixties movie star. Despite the situation, Mary Ann fluttered with excitement.

"Oh! That's so exciting! And the Howells are here, too." Mary Ann leaned in. "What made you decide to come on this trip?"

Of course, Ginger had no real answer to that question. When she'd woken up the morning before, the boarding passes and simply been there. In response, she simply raised an eyebrow and said "Fate, I suppose."

Mary Ann had her jaw dropped in awe as Ginger spoke. So wise, she thought.

"Do you know where they keep the wine on this ship?"

Mary Ann shook her head. Ginger shrugged and ventured toward the cockpit.

"Is she really that good?" the Professor asked, observing the wonder on Mary Ann's face.

"Good? She's a revelation in everything she's in. Her glare is violence, her joy is love itself…"

"Sounds impressive."

"Maybe we can—" Mary Ann stopped herself. "Nevermind."

The Professor glanced over at where Mrs. Howell stood, fanning herself with one hand, looking distraught. "And what of the Howells?" he asked. "It would appear we've got nothing but time. I'd be interested in picking their brains regarding issues in economics and sociology. Do you think they'd find that obnoxious?"

"Hard to say. It could be bad if Thurston Howell got angry. I bet everyone's intimidated to talk to them. They're the Howells."

/

Down in the cabin, Ginger and Mr. Howell ran into each other in front of the wine rack.

"I have to say, this is a horribly organized event," Howell said.

Ginger shrugged. "Well, I have a saying. The customer's always," she bent down and started to grab as many bottles as she could carry with one arm, "entitled to free booze if they get trapped on a boat against their will."

"I've never heard that one before." Mr. Howell chucked. "But I must say, I quite like it." He grabbed a bottle for himself. "Cheers, darling."

"Of course." Ginger opened her bottle with her mouth and clinked it against the millionaire's.

After taking a swig of his wine, Howell asked, "Say, aren't you the bimbo from Bimbofication?"

"That I am."

"Oh? You simply must tell me more."

/

She was leaning against the railing on the Minnow, staring out at the impenetrable jungle when Mary Ann was hit by a wave of fatigue. It occurred to her that she, and likely the others, had only slept in rare, fleeting spells the night before. Below deck, in the dark, she'd heard heavy breathing from indeterminable passengers on and off all night. She herself had probably dozed off a couple of times, but it wasn't nearly enough.

Mary Ann turned back toward the Professor, who was in the cockpit, fiddling with the transmitter.

"What are you doing?" Mary Ann asked over the static.

"Trying to get the transmitter to work." Professor furrowed his eyebrows. "It's strange. This is a high-quality transmitter. It's designed to be used in case of emergencies, across long distances."

"Are we out of range?"

"We shouldn't be." Professor paused. Then, "I wonder…" He pulled out the two-way radio Skipper had left with him, pressed a few buttons. Static.

"Come in, Skipper. This is Professor Roy Hinkley, calling the Skipper and Gilligan."

Static.

"Come in," he begged again. There was an uncharacteristic note of panic in his voice.

Mary Ann gripped the wall for support. Panic in a man as pragmatic as the Professor was contagious.

Still, nothing.

"This is…" Professor bit his lip. "Our crew might be in trouble."

"Oh, no."

"Although…" Then, he broke into a grin. "This could be a good sign!"

"Are you crazy?"

"No, no. This interference on both the transmitter and the two-way radio is likely caused by a jammer somewhere on the island."

"A jammer?"

"Yes. And if that's the case, there must be people on the island!"

"Oh! And the Skipper and Gilligan are liable to find them, and we'll be back home by tomorrow!"

"Best-case scenario," Professor said cautiously, though he was still grinning. "Let's not get the other passengers' hopes up."

"Right." Relief warm in her chest, Mary Ann yawned. "I'm going to try to get some shut-eye." Then, taking a dare, she added, "Care to join me?"

"No, no." Professor waved a passive hand. "I want to make sure my theory is correct. I'm going to keep calling for the crew, see if the Skipper or the first mate come in."

And so, in the cool shade below deck, Mary Ann Summers found herself sleeping alone yet again.

/

"I can't reach the passengers."

"What?" Skipper turned back from where he was stepping precariously over a cluster of rocks along the shore. Their plan was to walk along the shore until they found someone or something that could help them. If they walked and walked, finding nothing, and eventually made it back to the shipwreck, then they would know that the worst had happened. Then, they would know that they had shipwrecked on a deserted island.

"The walkie talkie's not working."

"What do you need to tell them?"

"I'm just checking in, making sure they're okay. They're probably hungry."

"Ok. You're probably using it wrong." Skipper crossed the rocks, and grabbed the walkie talkie from Gilligan once they were both on solid ground. He pressed the talk button and spoke clearly into the mouthpiece.

"Come in, Professor Hinkley. This is the Skipper of the S.S. Minnow calling Professor Roy Hinkley."

Static.

Skipper stared at Gilligan for a moment in disbelief. "Maybe… Maybe they're resting." He glanced back the way they'd come. They'd been walking for hours, and it was impossible to tell if they would circle back to the Minnow any time soon. "Still, let's pick up the pace."

The sun beat down on the two explorers, making them sweat, use up most of their limited water supply.

"Skipper, I'm thirsty," Gilligan said a couple hours later.

"We have to ration that water, Gilligan. Hold out for just a little longer, huh?"

"Water we gonna do when we run out?" Gilligan asked, the bad pun making him actually break into a smile.

Skipper rolled his eyes. "There's a small desalination device back on the ship. It won't be much for seven people, but it's better than nothing."

Gilligan nodded, wishing he'd brought it with them.

At first glance, a tropical jungle bordering a white-sand ocean shore might seem beautiful, heavenly. In reality, it was stiflingly hot, and while the myriad of blues, whites, and greens seemed dazzling at first, after hours of wandering in the blisteringly hot sun, the colors just became blinding.

So Gilligan thought he was hallucinating when he and the Skipper came upon a beach with a walkway leading up into a jungle.

The walkway was indisputably human-made, had little wooden steps leading up from the beach and into the jungle. It was thoroughly covered in underbrush, but with the aide of the wooden panels, the path was distinguishable.

"Do you see that, too?"

"See what, Gilligan?" Skipper was keeping his eyes on the horizon, always watching where they were going, watching the ground where he was walking, where the beach met the lagoon.

"That!" Gilligan pointed at the little steps.

Skipper looked once, did a double-take. "That's manmade! Good eye, little buddy!"

Proud, but more than a little apprehensive, Gilligan followed the Skipper up into the jungle. Inside, the intensity of the sun faded immediately. The leaves on the trees formed an impenetrable ceiling, and the world was entirely new. Underbrush and branches reached out to Gilligan, scratched and tickled him, and he held his breath in fear and dread.

Chatter from birds, maybe monkeys, or bugs sounded from all directions. Without the path under his feet, Gilligan was sure he'd become lost.

"Skipper, I think we should get out of here."

"There might be people," Skipper said, but he himself sounded unconvinced. "We have to keep moving."

Gilligan became aware of every twig snapping underfoot, every rustle of leaves from the jungle. It felt like an eternity before the smothering sunlight hit his face again.

"Gilligan…" Skipper started, pulling Gilligan from his intense focus on the sounds of the jungle. Smiling, Skipper pointed ahead.

They had wandered into a clearing.

A clearing lined with little wooden huts.

Suddenly elated, Gilligan and Skipper rushed up to the first hut in their line of sight and pounded on the door.

A beat.

No answer.

"Hello?" Skipper called out. "Anyone home?"

"Hello?" Gilligan echoed.

When no answer came, Gilligan and Skipper fumbled around each other, frantically trying to get to one of the other huts.

Six huts, well-built and still-standing, but there were no answers.

After knocking on them all, Skipper finally tried to just open one and waltz inside.

All were locked.

Feeling defeated again, Gilligan trudged back to the Skipper.

"We've got to get these doors open," Skipper said. Already, Gilligan could see, he was making a plan. Gilligan tried to follow suit.

"Maybe the others could help us?" Gilligan suggested, and the Skipper's face suggested that it wasn't a half bad idea.

"Alright." Skipper nodded, glancing back at the way they'd come. "Okay. We'll keep moving forward and either hit civilization or circle back to the Minnow. If we are alone here…" Here, the Skipper hesitated. "If we are alone here, maybe we can salvage some supplies from these huts to help us out until the rescue plane comes." Gilligan admired the Skipper's confidence; a rescue plan would be coming if they couldn't find civilization. "If not, we'll hit civilization and rescue ourselves."

Gilligan nodded, and the two headed back to the shore to press onward.

/

"They're talking about us."

"What?"

Mrs. Howell held up the one-way radio, whose transmission was crystal clear. Professor's eyes widened.

"That's…" He snatched up the two-way radio and tried it again. "Skipper, come in Skipper!"

Mrs. Howell knitted her brows. "Really, you're not even listening to the report." She turned up the volume for the Professor to hear, since the two-way radio was giving off mere static.

"…although the marina has been attempting make contact with the Minnow since it failed to harbor last night, and has sent out a rescue party, there is still no word on the fate of the passengers of the S.S. Minnow."

"It's…" Professor started.

"It's embarrassing!" Mrs. Howell cried. "They spent the same amount of time describing my husband and I as they did describing everyone else! I mean, I can't imagine that the public cares about you or that little farm girl as much as they do us."

Professor had no time to respond to this insult before he realized what this meant. "There's no jammer."

"Pardon?"

"I thought there was a jammer around here that was keeping us from getting in touch with the Skipper and Gilligan—"

"The crew! That's right! They should hardly matter as much to the media as much as a Howell—"

"Please, try to focus," Professor nearly snarled. "The Skipper and Gilligan could be in danger."

Mrs. Howell thought for a moment. Then, "Better them than us."

Professor pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Still, she had a point. Not all the castaways should be risking their lives in the wilderness. Someone would have to stay with the boat. "Very well. You and your husband should stay on board. The girls and I will form a rescue expedition and search for the crew. Stay here and keep an eye out for ships or planes that come to rescue us. And keep listening to that radio!"

Professor was off to gather Mary Ann and Ginger before she could object.

/

"This was a terrible idea," Ginger grumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Mary Ann was reluctant to disagree with the Professor, but she nodded nonetheless. "We won't be much help to the Skipper and Gilligan if we collapse from exhaustion."

"That's… That's true." Professor had realized as soon as they'd left the Minnow that they didn't know which way Gilligan and the Skipper had gone, that they would be wandering blind.

Hopefully this place was either small or civilized.

"Alright." Professor stopped and looked around at the shore in front of them. "Let's build a fire to keep animals and the cold away if night falls, and then get some rest."

"Sorry, I don't know if you two were brought up in the Stone Age, but I don't know how to make a fire," Ginger said sourly.

"I've made a few on the farm," Mary Ann offered. "But, then, always with matches. Anyone have any?"

"I used to be a scoutmaster," Professor said proudly. "Gather some small leaves and twigs and then work on getting bigger branches. I'll take care of the rest."

Once the fire was roaring, the three castaways didn't have time to marvel at their small feat before they were asleep in the sand.

/

"Honestly. No fresh beds, no meal service all day." Mr. Howell gave an exasperated huff. He and his wife had wordlessly slept the rest of the day away, and now the beach was growing dark and the Howells restless. "I'm firing my assistant. I paid for this! I don't care if we are shipwrecked, I expect at least some degree of service and care."

"Agreed," Mrs. Howell said with a wave of her hand, looking from the jungle to the sea. "And it was very pretty at first, but this landscape can hardly make up for the utter atrocity of everything else." Despite the fact that the Professor had told her to continue listening to the radio, she'd turned it off after listening to the financial report, unamused by the rest of the day's news.

"When the Captain gets back, I'll have a few choice words for him," Mr. Howell said angrily.

"If the Captain gets back," Mrs. Howell added.

"I suppose it's entirely possible that that irresponsible sailor has run away to avoid taking responsibility for this wreck…"

For the first time in years, the Howells looked at each other with an understanding, both believing that the crew had mislead them, both angry and uncomfortable.

"Well, we simply can't let him or the skinny one get away with it," Mrs. Howell said. "They'll be hearing from our lawyers when we get back home."

"Gilligan!" Gilligan was pulled out of autopilot by the Skipper's hands on his shoulders. "Gilligan, look!"

Skipper pointed above the trees to where a plume of smoke was rising up into the sky. "Fire!" Gilligan cried. "We should call 911!" Gilligan frantically patted his pockets, in search for his cell phone, before Skipper smacked him on the head with his hat, snapping Gilligan out of it.

"We can't call the fire department," he spat. "That fire means there's other people out there!"

"Well, let's go!" He and Skipper fumbled through the forest, trying to find the people who lit the fire before the sky went completely dark.

"HELP! HELP!"

Deep in the jungle, Gilligan and Skipper froze.

"Who was that?"

"Didn't sound like anyone from the Minnow," Skipper said, looking frightened. "M-Maybe it's the other people—"

"HELP! HELP!"

"We better go help," Gilligan said, his voice a whisper.

Skipper nodded wordlessly and the two wandered for a moment, apprehensively looking for someone—who, they had no idea.

Skipper stopped, and Gilligan followed. They looked around for a moment and Skipper, reluctant to continue aimlessly through the jungle, finally spoke. "There's no one…"

Skipper silenced himself at the sound of leaves rustling.

Overhead?

Gilligan looked up, but saw nothing. "What was tha—"

Before Gilligan could finish, a searing pain descended on him. Something sharp—like a claw—raked against his scalp. He felt himself scram, and flailed his arms in the air, tried to stop his assailant.

It seemed to be everywhere at once, attacking his head, his arms, his shoulders, his back…

Skipper let out a strangled cry. He was being attacked too, Gilligan realized.

"Run!" Skipper cried, and Gilligan immediately obliged.

They tore through the jungle, Gilligan on Skipper's tail, tripping and scratching himself on the underbrush, still unable to see his attacker in the flurry of pain and leaves.

Gilligan felt his shoe hit a root, or maybe a rock, and he went down. Hard. Both arms stretched forward, he hit Skipper in the back, and the tow of them went tumbling down though the dirt and underbrush.

When at last they braced themselves and stopped the dropping, their attackers were nowhere to be found.

And when they looked up again, they realized that the smoke they'd been following earlier had vanished.

Gilligan felt himself shiver; the jungle was not only cold at night, but he was acutely aware of how bad the situation really was.

That they were lost and alone, probably on a desert isle, with someone bloodthirsty.

/

When the three castaways woke on the dark beach, the fire had long since gone out, the air was cold, and the sky was dark.

Mary Ann held her breath until the noises from the jungle stopped.

"Did you hear that?" She rested one hand on the Professor's arm, and his presence immediately made her feel better.

"Animals," he whispered.

"Sounds like they're killing each other." Ginger was awake, too. It was strange to see a movie star waking up with sandy hair, eyes bleary. Although Ginger didn't look glamorous, Mary Ann was certain that she looked worse, and even in the dark, she tried to smooth her own dark hair down.

A twig snapped in the jungle and the three of them jumped.

Professor got to his feet and motioned for the girls to do the same. He drew his pocket knife, and Mary Ann wondered if they were in real danger.

"Why am I here?" Ginger muttered. "And why didn't I bring the wine?"

The three, led by the Professor, stepped toward the jungle.

Silence.

"Hello?" Ginger called, only to be immediately shushed by the rest.

Then, "Hello?"

Like an echo, an identical cry sounded from the darkness. Ginger's eyes widened, Mary Ann stumbled backward, while the Professor leaned in with interest and fear.

"Hello?" he repeated.

"Hello?" Ginger's voice called back.

For a moment, all they could do was stare at each other before Ginger shrugged and motioned toward the jungle.

Professor led them forward again.

The light from the moon was thoroughly blocked out by the treetops, and the three quickly became too blind and afraid to move.

After a beat of silence, the voice called again.

"Hello?"

The castaways didn't dare move.

"Hello?" This time, it was the Professor's voice that sounded, and Mary Ann felt him flinch.

The sound of leaves rustling and branches crackling began, and moved closer, slowly.

One of them made the executive decision to run, and the others followed.

Tearing through the jungle in the dark was no easy feat, and it became even more horrifying when she heard more footsteps, more branches cracking, faster and faster, until the Professor knocked into something with a thwack.

Behind him, the girls stumbled, and Mary Ann felt her arms reach out to touch something fleshy and wet.

Blood, her nose told her.

Before she could open her mouth to scream, someone else did it for her.

Not Ginger. Not the Professor.

"Heeeeeeeelp!"

That little first mate, she realized.

"Gilligan?" the Professor asked, relieved.

When Gilligan did not stop shouting, the Skipper's voice chimed in, furious. "Gilligan!"

The sound of Skipper smacking Gilligan with either his hat or his hand, and then Gilligan was silenced.

"Who all is there?" Skipper asked. "Didn't I tell you not to leave the ship?"

"The radio wasn't working. We thought you might be in trouble," the Professor explained.

"You are, aren't you?" Mary Ann asked suddenly, wiping the blood off of her hands.

"We were attacked," the Skipper started.

"Attacked?" the three others echoed, with varying levels of concern.

"By someone, I think—"

Again came rustling of branches, snapping of twigs.

The Skipper and Ginger cursed under their breaths, Gilligan and Mary Ann shrunk back, and the Professor drew a deep breath.

"Captain?"

The voice was unmistakably Mr. Howell's. The Skipper started to move, but the Professor reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Stop," he whispered. "They can imitate voices."

If there had been any light in the jungle—if Skipper still had the flashlight, he had turned it off long before the two parties had collided—the five castaways would have looked from face to face, guessing what to do next.

"Captain?"

"We left the Howells on the boat," Mary Ann whispered, praying the voice would silence itself.

"Come on, now, we can hear you!"

"No, you can't," Gilligan called.

He evidently didn't think well under pressure.

The footsteps drew nearer, until Mr. Howell's voice, close enough to kill, cried, "Aha!"

It was the Skipper who shoved him and started to call for the others to run.

"Really," came Mrs. Howell's voice. "This is unacceptable. This is beyond bad service, poor planning, or lack of respect. This is a crime!"

Of course, the castaways attempting to run stopped.

"And we'll see to it that you, Captain, are put in jail for life!" Mr. Howell threatened.

"I think that's really them," Gilligan whispered.

"Well, who were you expecting?" Mrs. Howell asked. "A getaway driver?"

"Quiet," Professor urged. "There's something in the jungle."

"What?" Mr. Howell's voice was not lowered, but he must have taken the Professor seriously, because he sounded afraid.

"No, no. It was just the Skipper and Gilligan we were hearing," Mary Ann said, trying to convince herself, despite the echoic cry and the blood she'd felt on Skipper. Maybe it truly had been an echo; maybe Skipper and Gilligan had just had a bad fall.

"No," Skipper said. "Gilligan and I were attacked."

"Are you sure it wasn't just branches or something?" Mary Ann asked hopefully.

Skipper's sigh was grim.

At that moment, the same howl from the night before crossed through the air, through the branches and the trees, long and desperate.

"We're gonna die here," Ginger whispered flatly when it was over.

"Come on," the Skipper nervously grabbed Gilligan's hand. Gilligan grabbed Mary Ann, who grabbed the Professor, who grabbed Ginger, who grabbed Mr. Howell, who grabbed Mrs. Howell, and the whole chain of castaways began navigating through the dark. "There's something you need to see."

/

**Thank you all so much for reading! Please leave a review if you enjoyed it. Or even if you didn't. Whatever.**


	3. Drowned

**A/N: Well. It's summer, which means I'm back into Gilligan's Island, which means the reboot is back! To the two people who are actually reading this: I hope you like it. This chapter is entirely too long but every word is for you!**

/

**103: "Drowned"**

"_Joy, sadness, fear, anger, disgust, surprise, and interest are commonly thought of as the core basic emotions, meaning that they are present and expressed the same way across cultures within the first year of human life. They are present to allow us to react to our most basic needs and wants: making sure we eat, that we're cared for, that we learn. But, of course, we continue to develop. We learn, we adapt._

"_So these basic emotions fail to capture the human experience beyond the first year. We develop self-awareness around age two, and with it comes embarrassment or shame. Often unwanted complexities come about when we begin to recognize ourselves and strive to fit in and contribute to rather than simply react to the world around us._

"_Responsibility… guilt… all complex feeling that are essential for humans to succeed, to work together. These socially learned feelings and emotions are not inherent but are key to our survival."_

/

Skipper was awake before the rest of the castaways. He was the captain, and even though he couldn't figure out a way to get inside the huts yet, he had to keep trying. If there was something inside that the castaways could use, he would make sure the castaways would get their hands on it.

The sun was high in the sky by the time all the castaways were awake. Stiff and still tired, they were moving slowly, exploring the huts that lined the jungle.

"Gilligan."

"Yeah, Skipper?"

"Gather the other passengers," Skipper said, fiddling with the door on the largest hut, the central hut. "We might have a little work to do."

Gilligan nodded dutifully, and a few moments later, the castaways were standing around Skipper. The tropical sun was beating down, and all the castaways were drenched in sweat. They looked fatigued, ragged, ranging from annoyed to terrified. It was up to the ship's Skipper to ease their minds.

"Now, I know we've been here for too long—" the Skipper opened, but was quickly cut off.

"Too long? The fact that we're here at all is a flaming outrage," Mrs. Howell groused.

"Really, Captain, if we ever make it back to the mainland, I will see to it that your seafaring days end!" Mr. Howell ranted. "This is an utter outrage, a complete fiasco, and…"

"Are we going to be here forever?" Mary Ann asked anxiously. She looked on the verge of panic. "I mean… This is a _desert island_, right? And… and we have no way off… Are we going to die here?"

"I'm sorry, I think I'm a little hungover or something, I must have missed it…" Ginger mumbled, looking around and rubbing her head. "We're stuck on a desert island?"

"Everyone remain calm," the Professor urged. "I happen to know a little something about scouting and survival, no one is going to die!

"Quiet!" the Skipper bellowed. He was loud enough to silence them, and when they looked back at him, he resolved to be a good leader. "Now, there have been some technical issues with our equipment, but the marina knows we never docked and it knows the route we were traveling. There's no way they won't send rescue planes out to comb for our wreck and any survivors. We're not going to die here."

Already, the castaways seemed to relax.

"That said," Skipper continued, his tone a bit more stern, "we don't know how long it will be until the rescue party finds us. We all need to work together and work hard to make sure we'll be okay until they do."

"Dear God," Mr. Howell gasped. "_Work? Hard? _You can't honestly expect a _Howell_ to—"

"Quiet, Howell," Skipper barked. "You're under my jurisdiction now, and I say we all contribute equally so we all get through this together. Every one of us. As of now, we're a team and we all work together. Got it?"

"Captain," Mrs. Howell cut in, "you can't honestly expect—"

"He said we don't wanna hear it, Howell," Gilligan barked in his best impression of his Skipper, chest out and voice deep.

"That's right, little buddy." Skipper gave a nod. "Now I suggest our first order of business is finding any resources we might need in case we're stuck here for a matter of days."

"_Days?_" Mary Ann gasped.

Skipper continued. "These huts might have leftover nonperishables, blankets, or tools. We need to get inside of them. Also, we're going to want to build a signal fire and keep it burning until the rescue plane spots it. Any questions?"

The castaways looked cross, but didn't argue.

"Good," Skipper said gruffly. "Now, I am putting the first mate, Gilligan, in charge of getting inside these locked huts. I'll brave the wilderness to scour the jungle for food and resources. I'll also go back to the shipwreck to recover all our emergency supplies, including the desalination device onboard. We won't be short on freshwater."

"I can get the fire going," Professor offered.

"Good. Make it big and keep it burning at all times." Skipper gestured to the center of the clearing in front of the huts. "Building it here will work just fine, that way you don't have to stray too far. Got it?"

Professor nodded.

"Those are the big jobs that we need done right now. Everyone needs to help out with something." Before the castaways could argue, Skipper gestured that he was finished and commanded the castaways to get to work. When the castaways disbanded they were slow, hesitant, but there was no backtalk. Skipper figured if he could keep them in line until they were rescued, they would all live. Some of the guilt that he had gotten them shipwrecked subsided from the fact that he seemed to be an acceptable leader. He had gotten them into this mess, and he would see them through it. He refused to let them down.

/

Mr. Howell stood crossly. His wife had jumped at the chance to "help" the captain to open the huts. In reality, she was simply standing in the shade of one of the sturdy wooden huts and examining the door. Just standing there. In the shade, no less! Mr. Howell felt a pang of jealousy; he wanted nothing more than to get back to his days of doing nothing real.

And yet, he was required to contribute. Apparently.

A glace around the sunny tropical clearing told him that the quaint little farmgirl was following around that brainy fellow who was gathering materials to build a fire. Ginger Grant had joined his wife and the first mate in staring uselessly at the huts. Howell was not going to jump at the chance to join either party; the two collecting firewood seemed beyond insufferable, and he had no desire to interact with Ginger Grant or his own wife after what had he'd initiated on the wrecked boat earlier.

"Captain!" Howell waved a hand at the captain, who was brushing himself off and about to head back into the jungle.

"Howell," the captain regarded him evenly.

"Listen, I don't want to get in the way of all your communist, hardworking ideals, but it looks to me as though both the jobs you said we need to get done are reasonably manned, and since I—"

"You need to contribute somehow, Howell," the captain said without a trace of sympathy. Being treated like anyone else made Howell flinch.

"You've got to understand, Captain, see everything looks under control and I really don't think I would be much of a help to either that egghead or your skinny little second in command, so…" Howell trailed off, hoping that the captain would take the hint and allow Howell to simply sit back and enjoy the tropical island. Perhaps he could stroll down to the water, get his feet wet…

"I couldn't agree more." At that, Mr. Howell smiled, satisfied that the captain was finally seeing reason. But the Skipper kept talking: "The jungle is vast and we learned the hard way that it might be pretty dangerous." He folded his arms. "Not to mention the fact that on top of the emergency bag, I'll need help carrying anything we find. I think there are at least three passenger bags on ship. Including yours and your wife's. I could use you along."

"Well, that's not exactly—" The captain kept walking, and Howell swiveled his head to follow the determined seaman.

"Listen, Howell," the captain started without looking back, "you can either help out somehow or take your chances as a loner. No man is an island—"

"That's hardly an appropriate metaphor, considering."

The captain didn't stop, and Howell realized that he was serious. He contemplated his options for a moment; on one hand, he had never been in a truly dangerous situation in his life. His definition of "grueling" was a long day of golf or an entire week in and out of board meetings with weary investors, and that was a rarity. He had never imagined that Thurston Howell III would have to trek across an island in the blistering sun, searching for food and water like a wild animal.

The rest of the castaways probably hadn't pictured spending their week this way, either. (Except perhaps that little farmgirl—he wasn't entirely sure what life was like anywhere _rural_.) Still, he couldn't get over the fact that he was getting treated pretty much exactly like the others. Howell couldn't remember the last time he had been treated exactly like anyone else in the room; even people who claimed to be undaunted by his excess of money and fame acted off when speaking to him. Cautious, hungry.

The captain didn't seem to give a damn that he was Thurston Howell III. Whether that was because of the captain's own persona or the extraordinary circumstances, Howell didn't know. Regardless, it seemed all he saw was another body capable of work. Begrudgingly, he followed after the captain, though not without considering faking getting sick or injured. How easily he could act as though he'd sprained his ankle, or contracted some sort of jungle fever… Then he could sit in the shade all day, drinking from a coconut, and the rest of the crew would be forced to take care of him…

Abd yet, despite how easy it would be to fake a fall or a fainting spell, he was pushing after the captain.

Wide, impossibly green leaves smacked Howell in the face and thorny branches tore at his bare arms. Shortly after beginning the journey, Howell was swimming in his own sweat, and the lack of water supplies meant that his mouth was as dry as the sand underfoot. He could not remember a time he'd been this uncomfortable. A few more hours of this, and he would have to _pretend _to be sick or injured.

He couldn't remember how long it took to make it from the camp to the shipwreck, but he was fairly certain it wasn't a short jaunt. Every minute dragged on, felt like hours. Howell couldn't be sure, but it felt as though the skin on his face was blistering and half his body was succumbing to cramps.

If Howell had to live like this until they were rescued, he prayed inwardly that either their rescue or his own death be swift.

/

For a long time, the only sound between the two men was the rustling of the underbrush and the sifting of sand. Skipper spared only the occasional glace back at the millionaire; he was caught inside his own head, reliving the wreck. He analyzed every moment of the trip: from the ship leaving the marina to the horrible scrape of the ship running aground.

What had been the first sign of trouble? Couldn't he have seen what was to come, somehow, even if only instinctually? How long had he been sailing the seven seas? He should have known, somehow.

Skipper knew it was all his fault, he was the captain. If anyone died now, it would be on his head.

Skipper was fairly certain they were almost there when Howell stopped in his tracks. Before Skipper could even ask what was the matter, Howell demanded a rest.

Skipper stared ahead, contemplated. They hadn't been walking for too long, but already they were both drenched in sweat and fatigued from the events of the past two days. He wanted to tell the millionaire to suck it up, they were almost there, or else threaten to leave him again, but of course Skipper had no intention of really leaving Howell anywhere on his own. He was in charge; he needed to motivate everyone to contribute if they were all going to survive.

But then, he felt the exhaustion wearing on himself, and he was just happy that Howell had agreed to come along. Nevermind that his pace was too slow and he was demanding a break when they hadn't even reached the Minnow yet: he deserved the break.

So, Skipper nodded and joined Howell, sitting in the shade of a massive palm tree. They were both breathing heavily, and Skipper quickly realized how relieved he was to be taking a rest, despite how much he wanted to press forward.

Respite allowed him to listen to how desperately his legs hurt; how his body was drenched in sweat; and how, despite the short and uneasy sleep he'd gotten in the cool shaded sand the night before, he was completely exhausted. His hat suddenly felt heavy, so he removed the gold-emblemed captain's hat and rubbed the sweat from his brow. He longed for a cool shower, but he didn't dare guess how long it would be before he had access to such a luxury again.

"You're in better shape than you look," Mr. Howell commented.

Skipper was fairly certain this was a remark regarding his weight, so he responded with a halfhearted utterance.

This did not deter the Howell. "Truly, why do we have to walk so fast? We're trapped on a desert island, it's not like we're pressed for time here..." Skipper again neglected to provide a real response, but Howell continued talking. Skipper just wanted to catch his breath and quietly scrutinize the whole situation. Clearly the millionaire was rarely around people who refused to hang on his every word. "…Unless of course, you're training for the Desolate Pacific Island Marathon," he mused, "in which case, you've got a long way to go… An arduous journey in front of you. You'll be wanted to trim a few pounds, Captain."

"I get it, Howell," Skipper said without sparing a glance. He was staring out to sea, wondering whether civilized islands or populated ships were nearby.

Howell followed his glance and had an entirely different thought: "Care to go for a dip?"

The thought was sorely tempting, but… "We've gotta keep moving."

"We'll be no use to the others if we drop dead from heatstroke, Captain."

Skipper stood up anyway, afraid that if he entertained the thought any longer, he'd never find the motivation to make it to the Minnow and back. "Tell you what," he said anyway, because the millionaire did have a good point, "we'll cool off once we reach the ship."

/

Gilligan was getting nowhere with the huts.

He'd tried working with the women—teamwork makes the dream work!—but to no avail. He tried first to think of what the Skipper would do. The Skipper, Gilligan had figured, might be strong enough to break the doors down.

But even between Gilligan, Ginger Grant, and Mrs. Howell, they couldn't muster the strength to so much as budge a single hut door.

So now, Gilligan was using his head. That's what Skipper would've told him, he decided. First, he and the women tried to pick the lock with twigs, but they'd been too brittle and one by one, their twigs snapped. When the women retreated, he'd borrowed some leftover rocks and a large stick from the Professor and the girl called Mary Ann, who'd been building the signal fire. With these materials, he resolved to build an axe.

By now, the signal fire was roaring, and so the Professor and the farmgirl were sitting in the shade with Ginger Grant and Mrs. Howell, who had given up hope on the huts. Even though Gilligan was still giving it his all, he couldn't blame them. His back was sore from working the materials, and even though he was already sitting in the cool of the shade, he longed to be sitting with somebody. If he was going to spend the next few days with these people, he wanted to get to know them.

He thought back to high school; he'd graduated only two years prior and had been working full-time at the marina ever since. For the most part, he didn't miss school—too much homework, not enough time for lunch… not to mention the classes he'd failed. And yet, he did sometimes miss the closeness and certainty that came from getting to see the same people every day. Unfailingly every year, on the first day of school, the fun teachers would insist that the students play icebreaker games to get to know each other. Most of the students groaned, but Gilligan used to adore the utter frivolousness, and he always learned something about his classmates.

He was tempted to leave the huts, wait until the Skipper retuned to worry at all about it. What he wanted to do was join the others, to learn about each one of them.

But, he thought as he tried for the six hundredth time to fasten the bluntly-sharpened rock to a lumpy stick, he'd been given a job to do, and he would see it through to the end.

He was still hard at work when one of the castaways got out up and approached him.

It was the little farmgirl: Mary Ann, Gilligan remembered. Even sunburned and unkempt from the past two days, she looked cute. _Natural beauty, _as Gilligan's mother would've said. Her black pigtails, which had been shiny, curly, and bouncy when the S.S. Minnow took off, were now limp and ragged. Still, there was light in her eyes, and with both hands clasped patiently behind her back, she was the picture of innocence.

"Hi. Gilligan, right?"

Gilligan nodded, setting down his work-in-progress to give her his full attention. "That's me! And you're Mary Ann."

Mary Ann nodded back. "Listen, Gilligan, we're all awful hungry and tired, but Roy, uh, the professor, got the fire going real quick, and so I don't mind a little extra work if there might be supplies we can share in there."

Gilligan glanced down at the stick and stone he'd been working with. In truth, he realized, that was all he had, a stick and a stone. The stick was uneven, branchy, and would never make a decent hilt. The rock he'd chosen was sharp for a rock, but not for the head of an axe. And the vine he'd gotten his hands on was too short to ever keep the two together. "You don't know how to make an axe, do you, Mary Ann?"

Mary Ann shook her head. "Well, I was raised on a farm. Back in Kansas, we sometimes had to get creative, but I've never fashioned a functional axe."

Gilligan sank. "I wonder when the Skipper will get back…"

Mary Ann laid one hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "Well," she said slowly, "the Professor did mention one idea. He said if we couldn't figure out how to get the doors open, we could try burning them down."

"_Burning_ them down?" Gilligan repeated, gobsmacked.

"Well, he seemed to think we could control the burning somehow."

Gilligan shuddered to think what would happen if he tried controlling a burning building, but he didn't want to admit that sometimes his methods went astray, so he asked if Mary Ann had any other ideas.

She put one hand on her chin, thinking for a moment. "Did you try picking the locks?"

Gilligan nodded, proud that he'd already thought of that. "I did. Nothing good to pick them with. Just twigs."

"Hmm... Mrs. Howell and Ginger Grant didn't have an bobby pins?"

"Nope."

"I don't have any, either," Mary Ann said dejectedly. "But maybe…" She glanced toward the jungle, a concerned look on her face. "I don't know if it's safe to go back into the jungle, but…"

Gilligan remembered with dread the swift and powerful attackers he and Skipper had faced earlier. He really didn't want to run into them again, but he did want to know what Mary Ann was thinking. "What?"

"If we could find any small animal bones… Those can be slender and sturdy."

"You want to pick the lock with _bones_?"

"Have you got a better idea?"

Gilligan was silent for a moment, thinking. He did so badly want to eat… If the huts were stocked with canned foods, he would be willing to risk almost anything. He thought of sweet peaches, oranges, beans… Anything edible would make venturing into the jungle worth it. He realized then how quickly his thoughts were being derailed with imagery of food, and he realized that neither he nor the others could likely carry on without eating for much longer.

If Skipper could cut through the jungle to get to the wreck of the Minnow, Gilligan decided, he could brave the wilderness to get his job done, too.

"Okay," Gilligan whispered, gathering his courage. "Let's go."

/

The shipwreck was a welcome sight. The destruction across the Minnow's starboard side filled the sea captain with sorrow. It was a harrowing reminder of his failure, and yet Skipper knew that the ship was chock-full of much-needed supplies.

Not to mention the deal he'd struck with Mr. Howell.

The millionaire wasted no time in rushing to the sea.

It was childlike even before he shouted, "Last one in gets eaten by an alligator!"

"I'm going to check what we can salvage on board first," Skipper hollered.

"Your loss."

Skipper took a deep breath before reentering the ship. That first night had been beyond frightening—no idea where they were, if the second would bring their doom…

When he stepped on the ship, for a moment, he was there again, in the absolute darkness with the terrified passengers, all of them listening with dread to those howls…

Skipper shook his head. He had to move forward. Now, the sun was shining bright, the castaways were safe back at camp, and they were about to have an abundance of resources at their disposal.

First he gathered the emergency supply kit, which he'd left on the ship when he and Gilligan left the castaways on board. It was a bulky duffel filled with rain ponchos, an emergency flashlight, a whistle, and a flare gun.

Skipper would keep the flare gun close until the rescue plane came. If that wouldn't get a rescue party's attention, nothing would.

Also in the duffel was the desalination device and an assortment of nonperishables. They wouldn't go hungry any time soon. Still, Skipper thought as he stared longingly at the canned goods, it had entirely too long since they'd eaten, and he resolved to get the food back to camp as quickly as possible.

He hustled as he tracked down the bags the passengers had brought along; there was one little overnight bag, a carry-on-sized suitcase, and two comically large pieces of luggage that Skipper assumed belonged to the Howells.

There was time to join the millionaire in the water for a brief moment because, as he had pointed out earlier, they would accomplish nothing by dropping dead from heatstroke. He would move everything salvageable off the ship, then tell Howell that break time was over.

/

Howell was floating on his back, still fully clothed, despite his unbuttoned shirt. His straw hat was resting on his torso, and his eyes were closed, relaxed. _This_ was exactly what he needed. His weekend was supposed to be one of relaxation and hedonism; none of this _hard work_ bullshit.

At first it had almost been fun, following the captain through the jungle and across the beach. _Hard work! Contributing! _The captain had made him feel like it was something important, like he was the man everyone else depended on, and it had been interesting and different playing the man who gets stuff done…

But soon he was covered in perspiration, which Howell was only familiar with in other contexts. And how his legs cramped! And the captain moved so fast!

He was glad to be at the shipwreck. He would have liked to have the movie star's company there, to help him _relax_. Strangely, he also wasn't opposed to sitting down with his wife and sharing an afternoon, as long as she didn't scold him too much… Nevertheless, he would be content just floating in the water until they got back to camp.

He groaned inwardly at the notion of having to return back to camp; he'd done more than enough hard work for the day, so he sank down deeper into his meditative state.

Which was when the captain declared, "Alright, Howell, let's move out."

Mr. Howell opened one eye. "You can't be serious, Captain."

"It's time to move, come on. We'll split up the bags and head back to camp, alright."

"We've been here for less than ten minutes."

The captain shook his head. "It's been long enough, now come on." When Howell refused to obey, the captain swung one massive arm against the water, covering Howell in a brutal splash.

He sputtered, lost his balance, and then maneuvered himself upright to face the offending captain. "Careful, sailor, I could have you arrested for assault."

The captain just scoffed. "You don't seem to get it." There was that tone again; that no-nonsense voice he'd endured more times in the past few hours than in the past thirty years of his life.

"No," Howell interjected. "_You_ don't seem to understand who it is you're dealing with. _I am Thurston Howell the Third! _I make more money in a single afternoon than you'll see in your sad little life. Men worship and fear me! Pushing me around is about the stupidest thing anybody could do."

"Howell." He could see that the captain was trying to speak calmly, rationally, despite his temper. "This isn't Manhattan or Boston. Neither I nor the elements we're facing are intimidated or influenced by your wealth. The fact is that we need to get these bags back to camp. They've got valuable supplies—"

"Oh, don't talk to me about valuable!"

"Howell. When we get back to the mainland, everything will go back to normal. You can get right back to—"

Howell laughed mirthlessly. "Oh," he pointed one finger into the captain's chest, "you'd better hope we never get back to the mainland, because when we do, I will sue your ass so hard, you won't—"

"It's my job to get you five back no matter what, understand? I am just trying to make sure we all survive this. You can do whatever you want when we get back. I don't care." A brief silence, the sound of the ocean and the rustle of palm leaves. Then, "I mean really, think about your wife. She's back at the camp, she's trapped in this mess, too. Don't you want to bring these essentials back to her? Don't you want to make sure she's safe and unafraid?"

There it was again, that nasty call to duty, asking Howell to be some kind of hero, to do that vulgar _hard work _not just for himself, but for others.

"Don't you want to take her back to Hawaii so you can hold her in your arms and know your both safe? That might never happen if we don't get everything we need back to camp, and fast."

There was something so sincere, so longing in the sea captain's voice. It made his annoying sentiment almost impossible to ignore…

Had he and his wife ever been happy together? The image of her as a young bride came to his mind almost unwillingly. She had been radiant, and they were ever so young. The whole thing had mostly been set up by their parents—it was a business dealing, the Howell-Wentworth merger—and for the most part, he had only been excited about the professional prospects. Expanding the empire meant more money, and that was all that mattered. He hadn't even considered the woman he was marrying until they were standing at the exquisite altar.

The excitement had waned, of course, as Howell was told romances always do, but… Mr. Howell allowed himself to entertain, for just a moment, of the possibility of taking Lovey Howell back to the mainland as his wife, _really_ his wife…

Before Howell could finish the thought, something yanked him by the leg, backwards, into the water.

His face hit the water with incredible force. Salt stung his still-open eyes, and whatever had taken hold of his leg was relentless. He kicked as hard as he could, despite the pain from the walk, the pain from being grabbed, the pain that seemed to come out of fear itself.

He thrashed for everything his life was worth—which was a great deal, to say the least—and felt himself break free.

He surfaced, swallowed a dramatic breath, and swam, hard, toward the captain who was shouting for him at the shore. He'd been dragged impossibly far out to sea—several feet—in just seconds.

He didn't have time to ponder why or how before something wrapped around his other leg and pulled.

The captain vanished as Howell felt himself go under, go deeper…

His vision was obscured by frantic bubbles as he thrashed again and twisted desperately, trying to catch a glimpse of his assailant.

It was hopeless, of course; the world was a blur. The world was rendered entirely incomprehensible by the breath hemorrhaging from his muffled scream, the panic, the _pain_… And, Howell realized, his world was growing darker… darker…

The realization that he was being dragged down made Howell panicked anew, and, with a fresh surge of energy, he kicked again. It was enough to escape and propel him closer to the surface, closer…

He lost another mouthful of air, and the bubbles told him which way to swim.

He kicked, hard, was staring at the light of the sun above the waves…

He wasn't going to make it, he realized with unimaginable dread. As the horror sank in, an impossible darkness descended into his vision. He tried to gasp, but instead inhaled water.

Was he swimming up or down?

A vicious cough forced its way out and backfired when he sucked in another lungful of water.

He thought of the surface, the captain waiting for him. The rest of the castaways at camp. The life he'd unknowingly left behind when he boarded the Minnow.

His wife.

And then all he could think was how much it hurt. It _hurt, it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt—_

Until he couldn't feel anything anymore.

/

"What was that?" Gilligan whirled. He was wielding a branch like a sword, telling himself he would protect Mary Ann if he had to.

Protect Mary Ann. Find something to pick the lock with. Recover anything in those huts that might be useful.

"Gilligan, it's only your imagination." Mary Ann didn't seem too sure, even before she added. "Come on, we better keep moving."

They would find what they needed.

"Hey," Gilligan started, "I… I really appreciate having you along and everything, Mary Ann, but… why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you following me into these creepy old woods?"

"Oh." Mary Ann sounded sad, and Gilligan wondered if he should've kept his mouth shut. "I guess… I don't have a corner on every market in the country and I wasn't famous as a child and I didn't even graduate college, much less get a PhD… I guess I'm a little out of my league with the other passengers."

"Didn't you come here with the Professor?" Gilligan remembered that they might have even been dating when they boarded the ship, and that they might not be anymore. He didn't want to bring up any sore subjects, but he wanted to know if there was any way he could help her.

"Yeah. But I think… I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't have to," Gilligan said tamely.

They trudged on in silence for a few more minutes, eyes on the ground, until Gilligan heard a rustling in the leaves again. His gaze jolted upward, expecting the attackers from the night before, but instead, his eyes met those of a deer.

All three.

Staring back at Gilligan was a deer, slender and graceful, with grandiose antlers. But Gilligan, of course, wasn't looking at the dark antlers. He was transfixed by its eyes: two deep brown doe eyes, right where they should be, and one wide white eye along its forehead. Was it glowing?

Gilligan tried to alert Mary Ann, but his words weren't working. She was walking away, though, getting farther and farther…

"Mary—" he managed to choke out.

"Gilligan!" Mary Ann hollered before he could finish. The deer's ears pricked up and it pranced off to disappear into the trees. "I think I found something!"

/

The darkness was soft. Soft and comfortable, like the moment before sleep, or…

Howell was ripped from the dark with a start. The captain was pushing on his chest, hard, and he could feel water spilling out from his mouth.

The pain came back then, tearing at his lungs and his every limb.

And the captain was shouting.

"Howell! Howell, can you hear me? What _happened_?"

"That is the question," he managed to mumble in response.

"One second you were just standing there, and the next you're being dragged out to sea!"

"That's right…" Howell remembered. The memory was cold and unfamiliar; he had never had a bad trip, but he imagined it would feel something like this. Just recalling the events brought the dread and fear back in full force. "I… Something grabbed me. Something in the water…"

"A shark? Alligator?" The captain's voice was hurried, panicked, and he seemed to be looking for something. "Doesn't look like you were bit anywhere. They'd make you bleed something awful."

"I don't…" _Shark? Alligator? Bleed!? _"I… I almost _died_!" Howell cried. "I almost _died_!"

"Thank God you're alright," the captain muttered. "I'd have never forgiven myself…" Then, "Can you move? Can you walk?"

His breathing was still strained, heavy, but Howell managed to pull himself to his feet. He was trying to wrap his head around the entire concept of _death_. All he could figure was that he wanted to stop thinking about it. Immediately. "I can walk. Let's get back to camp."

"Are you okay to make the walk?" The captain's voice was still stern, in charge, but he was concerned, genuinely, Howell could tell.

"I could run, easily, if it gets me out of here."

The captain looked sideways at Howell, like maybe he wanted to say something, and the millionaire wondered if he was feeling smug after all that talk about survival and equality. Finally, the captain gathered the bags they'd have to lug and guided the way.

The walk back was less physically painful than the way back, adrenaline still numbing Howell's muscles, but he couldn't stop reliving what had happened under the water. The whole ordeal was on repeat in his mind, and Howell was suddenly aware of just how drastic the situation was: the captain had been right, the island didn't care what or who Howell owned.

If they weren't careful, every one of them could end up in the ground.

(Not even some kind of fancy mausoleum… the thought was beyond dreadful.)

"You're a strong man, Howell," the captain said eventually, pulling the millionaire out of his grim thoughts.

"What?"

"I think most would have drowned. You were down there for a long time. And now look, you're carrying those cases like they're nothing." True, Howell barely noticed the weight of the briefcases, even the one he'd had packed with everything a Howell could possibly need. "We're lucky to have you along, you've got real survival skills when you use them."

Whether the captain was just being nice or if he was sincere, Howell couldn't tell, but he didn't refute.

"Anyway," the captain continued uncertainly, "I don't know what it was like for you all on the mainland, but, uh, well, here, you and your wife are going to have to look out for each other. Your all you've got, you know?"

"Not all," Howell quipped, gesturing to the suitcase he was lugging. He tried to laugh off the comment, and even though it bothered him, he knew now that the captain was probably right. "What do you know about it anyway?"

"I've got a wife, back in the States."

"Yeah?"

"We're not on great terms. I don't see her very much and, well, uh, I just miss the little things."

"The little things?"

"The way she took her coffee. The sound of her laugh," the captain's voice was awkward, uncertain. Howell thought he might be embarrassed talking about her, but he wasn't partial to talking about his marriage, either, and it helped that they were walking ever-onward, not looking each other in the eye.

"What… happened to her?" he asked hesitantly. "Or, to you, or…"

The sea captain didn't answer.

What were Lovey's little things? Memories of the incident at the wreck were replaced with his great effort to remember everything he knew about her.

Which wasn't much.


End file.
